


A Rose Can Still Bloom in a Cemetery

by thepouringrain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied Johnlock, POV First Person, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepouringrain/pseuds/thepouringrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never thought he would find someone as dysfunctional as Sherlock. Certainly not someone he could love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rose Can Still Bloom in a Cemetery

I never thought I’d find someone as dysfunctional as Sherlock. 

Certainly not someone I could love. 

Mary is an artist and, like Sherlock, she is devoted to her work. Oil painting, photography and sculpting… you name it. Hours spent not talking to another soul? Yep. Sleepless nights of complete focus and dedication? At least twice a week.  
I can be who I want with her, even if that means copious amounts of Sherlock ramblings, an anecdote or two before we've even put the kettle on for our first pot of tea in the morning. She accepts him as part of me, and I sense a curiosity when she listens to my stories. 

“Why don’t you mind them?” I ask her one day. She is, as usual, facing a canvas and utterly absorbed in her painting.  
“I find out more about you from them… and Sherlock Holmes seems to me like a very inspirational man.”

Inspirational, this word rang true. Whether it was through heroism or simply a taste for adventure he was forever pushing the limits, either to prove someone guilty, to prove someone’s innocence or just to prove himself. The only problem being that it was a far too short time before he was pushed too far. 

I met Mary two months after the funeral. I had gone back to the flat for no particular reason; some magnetic force which had for weeks had been repelling me was suddenly pulling me back there. When I arrived, the place was like an empty shell. It had looked more homely an hour after the explosion opposite the road. Everything I had lived for here was now missing. Missing? If only it was just that- missing in action. If only there was still some shred of hope, some evidence contrary to the undeniable fact that Sherlock Holmes was… dead. 

Mary could empathize with this I suppose, the desire for hope however false. She had come to the flat that day wishing to ask ‘Mr Holmes’ about a case. She had been on the receiving end of an annual gift of pearls for the last six years, ever since she first graduated from Art College. It’d had given her hope that her father, who had been missing for many years, was still alive. She’d had unable to interest the police however, and upon returning from a year painting abroad to find another pearl waiting for her, she had decided to turn to consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. It had been my job to tell her that wasn't possible any more.

I’m not sure that “Sorry, he’s…” is the best pick-up line up line I’ve ever used. I couldn’t even finish the sentence, but it seems that my face said it all. The news was obviously a heavy blow to her, the final straw to break her strong will. In seconds her eyes were glistening with tears and, it was, well… a relief to have someone else to comfort. To be able to let go of my own pain for a moment and fall back on my instincts as a doctor- to care for, to comfort- it was respite from my own all-consuming grief.  
Somehow this led us to a wine bar a week later, just across from a South Kensington art gallery… and then to lunch in Convent Garden two weeks after that. 

He remains my first thought when I wake up every morning, but she is now my last thought at night. 

*

Whatever the newspapers had done to Sherlock’s reputation and however much they are responsible for his fate, his fall, I am still grateful for them for one thing. Without them, I’d be left without a single photograph us together. Although they tried to tear him down, to turn him into a fraud, they are the only ones to provide me with solid proof of our existence together. That Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were once two names spoken in the same sentence. 

Apart from these, I only have two photos of him taken at the flat, one with him hovering in the background at the Christmas get-together and the other for the blog. There are the photographs of him taken during the autopsy of course, but I only managed a glance at them. They were unbearable, a cold hard truth that still somehow managed to seem like a lie. 

Whether as a hero, a fraud, or a fake, these newspaper cuttings remained evidence of that time, of our time. 

It came as a mutual agreement that Mary should paint a portrait of Sherlock. It was inevitable really. She started on a Saturday afternoon; Mrs Hudson had brought the newspaper clippings when she came for tea earlier that day. The articles where carefully selected: ‘HATMAN AND ROBIN’, ‘REICHENBACH HERO’, and ‘BANKER KIDNAPPING SOLVED’… no mention of any Rich Brook or Kitty Riley. She handed them to me with the smallest but saddest of smiles.

“I’d kept these from his cases, oh you thought I didn’t? Silly of me really but I thought you might like to have them around… now.” 

Her hand trembled slightly as she passed the clippings to me. I’d made sure I visited Mrs Hudson’s regularly; whilst she had not mourned for her husband the grief she felt over Sherlock’s death was clear. He had been like the son she never had.

Mrs Hudson and Mary get on well, Mrs Hudson is admiring of Mary’s work and Mary is certainly a good listener. It always astounds me just how accommodating Mary is; sure, Mrs Hudson isn’t exactly the biggest issue we’re facing as a couple. She is however, a bridge that joins us to the last two years of my life and Mary has shown that this is a river she is willing and keen to cross. 

I watched TV quietly in the bedroom as she worked in the gathering darkness. At about seven o’clock I got up to close the curtains, glancing in to the living room to see what progress she had made. It was spooky to see his face haunting the canvas like it did, that ghostly pallor which contrasted so shockingly with his bright pair of blue eyes, one of which was currently taking shape before my own eyes. Mary was concentrating diligently, that look of vivid curiosity displayed across her face that coincided with anything Sherlock related. 

We went for a walk in the park on Sunday morning and it was strange to see Mary more preoccupied with thoughts of Sherlock than I was. 

It’s not until the next night that she finishes.

“John, wake up,” Mary murmured, her hand pressed to my shoulder. 

I walk into the living room bleary eyed and sit down facing the portrait. I look. 

Seconds pass by and I’m wondering whether the delayed response is just because I’m foggy headed from sleep or not. Sure it’s Sherlock alright. The still wet paint is glistening in the moonlight, giving his hair an almost lifelike quality but, no, it’s still not right. Mary had decided not to draw a photograph directly. Instead she’d used the various photos as references but even then it seems there are still pieces of the puzzle missing. Where the lighting was too strong or too weak in the photograph to show detail she had to improvise and although the skillful brushstrokes conveyed both the regal and exotic in his countenance it just wasn’t…

“It’s not him Mary,” I say quietly, my hand drifting to the right hand side of his face, “Look there, you’ve made it symmetrical to the left but that’s not how it would, this was a bad idea. We shouldn’t be doing this, not while the memories are so fresh. Goddammit Mary!” My fist smacked against the coffee table. 

Every muscle in my face tightens as I screw my eyes tightly shut. My face is tilted down ashamedly, away from the garish light of the streetlamps which seeps through the window. It’s as though I’m paralyzed, until a dry sob escapes me. 

“I’m sorry Mary,” I say, eventually unclenching my fist and reaching for her hand. But she has gone and the snap of the bedroom door leaves me clutching at thin air. 

I’m sinking in sentiment. 

*

“What did you mean, ‘we shouldn’t be doing this’?” Mary asked over lunch. 

It seems she hadn’t plucked up the courage at breakfast and the pained look on her face showed clearly how she wasn’t used to unsettling the water like this. 

I didn’t really know what I had meant by it. I paused, staring down at my jacket potato and salad. Maybe I was ashamed at how much grief I still felt. I hadn’t thought I’d suppressed it at all, I thought that this every second ache was the extent to which anyone could feel for another person. As it happens, there seems to be a gaping chasm of anguish behind that as well. 

I had to be honest with myself though. I couldn’t just blame this all on Sherlock. Before I’d even met Sherlock, I can’t truthfully say that I’d had that many stable, successful and functioning romantic relationships. 

“I just mean…” I paused for a moment, “Look Mary, you’ve put your whole life on hold for me, for this. I love you for that, I love you for everything. But, how can you be so sure that I’m worth all that?” 

She didn’t reply. Her head was bowed down as she stared at her own plate, eyes tracing its dark blue rim as she collecting the last pieces of food onto her fork. We remained in silence as we finished our meal and got up to go wash the dishes in the kitchen. 

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.” 

I paused; dropping the plate I was wiping clean back into the sink. In the last two years I had lost everything, and then gained even more before losing everything all over again. And somehow… somehow, even in my current despair, it looked like I might be able to match the sort of happiness I new only a few months ago. Thanks to the beautiful woman that stood beside me.  
Placing soapy hands around her waist I pulled her towards me. 

“You’re a stunner Mary,” I said, a rare smile breaking on my lips, soon to be interrupted by another pair of lips against mine. 

*

Her small, open plan apartment looks like the set of a play, but is in no way artificial. It’s minimalistic but her artistic touch can be seen in everything from the curtains to the rug on the floor. The sort of enticing stage you’d want to climb across the orchestra pit onto and stay forever- especially with the thought of playing opposite demure starlet Mary Morstan. 

She kept it just a messy as Sherlock kept Baker Street though. Instead of specimens and chemicals, her sinks were constantly filled with paint-pots and brushes. This continues into the living room- instead of the single, ostentatious, complimentary art book on the coffee table, Mary’s was piled high. Her flat doubled up as her studio just a Sherlock’s home was also his science lab. Even her treatment of my possessions reflected Sherlock’s disregard for what was his and what was mine- I’d often get up in the morning to find Mary already awake and wearing nothing but one of my jumpers, no doubt managing to get clay or paint up the sleeve as she worked. 

I doubt it is particularly healthy to compare every action of your partner with the man you are mourning, but it was certainly better than sitting for hours with your gun held to your head, or staring at a bottle of pills as I had done before meeting Mary.  
You could even call her observant. Yes, she observed everything in a person, although she saw not how it translated to their personal life, but how it translated to the canvas. I was even gradually learning how to look at others how an artist does- sitting opposite from Mary on the bus I’d observe the delicate curve of her nostrils and how the light shone on particular strands of her short hair. 

But life was not how it was between Sherlock and I back at Baker Street. I noticed each difference with what felt like a stab wound to my chest, the silence at night as I lay in bed without interruption in the form of a violin being played downstairs or even the small fact that I no longer had to wear socks around the house just in case we had to leave quickly upon a call from Lestrade. It’s like I’m back with my cane again, except not because I cannot run- I just have no reason to.

I wasn’t going anywhere. But maybe that was a good thing, even when feeble adjectives such as ‘good’ seem too strong in this situation where the word ‘agonizing’ is an understatement. By some means I had clumsily found my way back to happiness of some kind: love. 

*

We go to visit Sherlock’s grave together. I go every other week to the churchyard. This is unusual for me, I’ve never gone to the graves of any of my mates who died out in Afghanistan- their graves had been something private, for family only. But seeing that as far as I knew none of Sherlock’s family visited the grave, I guess it made sense that I did instead. 

There had been a storm the night before, and when we arrive that morning we find that all of the flowers and cards previously adorning the various gravestones had been scattered by the wind. The effect was odd, bunches of flowers lay upon the grass as though upon a mass of unmarked graves. 

Mary and I walk hand in hand across the wet grass until we reach the glossy black headstone with Sherlock Holmes written in gold lettering. I’d be too ashamed to admit the amount of time I’d spent staring into that polished slab of stone, hoping… begging to see a dark coat and blue scarf standing behind me in its reflection. 

There’s a bench under a nearby tree that we go to sit on. Its cold, but we’re wrapped up in lots of layers and sit close, sharing body heat. I sit with my head resting on her shoulders, telling stories about Sherlock that I think she might not have heard yet or wouldn’t mind hearing again. There are a surprising number of anecdotes involving art that interest her, whether it’s the Chinese artefacts smuggled by the Black Lotus, the fake Vermeer painting or the Falls of the Reichenbach case. 

It’s far too cold to stay sitting for long so we walk back over to grave, standing side by side. At this point Mrs Hudson, who frequently visited with me, would usually walk back to the taxi but Mary didn’t seem to be thinking of going anywhere. Even when I made a move to go she stayed where she was. Once I had walked out of earshot I noticed that her lips were moving and, like I had done many times before, she was talking to Sherlock. 

I found myself overwhelmed with curiosity as to what she was saying, but also by how every single day Mary managed to surprise me: with her infinite loyalty, humour and beauty. 

*

When Mary asks me to meet her friends I realize that, with her lack of parents or siblings, this is the equivalent of her asking me to visit her family. 

Mary has met Harry, who has been particularly insistent on sibling bonding these past few months- either due to her own loneliness or for concern for me. Surprisingly, Harry seemed intensely jealous of Mary upon first meeting her; again I couldn’t tell whether it was because Harry felt I should be spending more time with her or her more time with me. Whether or not it was because her brother was suddenly front page news I wasn’t sure, but when my name had eventually disappeared from the newspaper print and Harry was still visiting weekly, I did hope that this newfound sisterly affection was genuine, if a bit misguided. 

We arrive at Cecile’s house, Mary carrying a bouquet of flowers that she had arranged herself and me a box of champagne truffles which Mary had informed me were Cecile’s favourite. I’m wearing a checked shirt and jacket, Mary has her hair braided and looped into an up-do of sorts. 

We are welcomed inside, Mary pulled into a tight hug that makes me realize I am not the only one who adores her. Others enter the hallway from the living room and soon enough we’re lost in the haze of greetings and introductions- the only way to heal the wounds of lost loved ones, according to Ella. I find myself seated around a dinner table surrounded by the young, the beautiful and the eccentric. They are genuinely friendly, even if I suspect that I caught Mary giving one or two of them warning looks as they try to bring about certain topics of conversation with me. I try my hardest to ignore this paranoia, but it’s like waiting for the bullet to hit in Afghanistan. How can you ignore the inevitable? 

Mary managed to steer off the worst of it though, and the metaphorical elephant in the room was left without an invite to the table. I was able to relax, and to enjoy the evening- its people and its warmth: the candles on the table, the fire from the grate, the laughter of new-found friends. 

It was healing, yes. But the sting of the antiseptic wasn’t to be felt until we arrived back home.

Up until now we’d begun to work up a steady rhythm: visits to my therapist, visits to the grave, visits to Mrs Hudson, and a routine at home that felt jarringly familiar. 

And here was another unbearably familiar routine: returning home at night to emptiness, walking into a silent flat without him following in behind me. I knew what was about to happen, I would walk to the bedroom as fast as I could before I was blinded by a blaze of tears. I’d collapse on the bed, overcome with paralytic grief that would wreck be completely, ripping at my body and leaving behind nothing but hollowness and pain and misery. 

Then the routine opening of the bedroom door… the comforting touch of hands that would wrap themselves around me… the return of warmth from the body that would presses itself against mine…

It was an exhausting, vicious circle: the grief, the comfort, the recovery and the relapse. But it wouldn’t happen tonight, no. As I entered the flat, Mary stood right beside me, intuitively catching hold of my hand. 

Mary was here, with the promise of always being here. The wound that she had found me with would still leave a scar, and there was nothing she could do about it. She wasn’t him. But she was healing it, and I owed her everything for that.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something with Mary, as I really can't bear the idea of John being alone for three years.


End file.
